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Wisdom Offerings

A Perfect Day for Banana Fights



“The skin color’s all uneven and I hate when there are dark spots. Like mush. What’s so hard about getting good bananas?” says she in fruit frustration. Evidently a scourge on their otherwise near-perfect love, “we always fight about bananas.”

“ OK, ok,” he barks, “I’ll go out later. I wanna watch the hockey now (it’s the Olympics after all).” He snarls below his full-blown voice, having been up with the baby since 6am. In her defense, she’s been up sterilizing, burping, changing, cajoling, doing the heavy lifting just like he has. They’re team players after all.

“ I don’t know why you can’t tell these aren’t good bananas!” the complaint finds its way from her tired moving frown to his irked heart and I haven’t done it right again scarletly pulsing blood flow and up and out the front door he flees in search of great bananas. Reminds me of my brother’s family frettings too. Not so long very ago, well maybe 15 years…. when I was with a man, a foreign correspondent, dark and Swedishly undone, we overheard the awful news….”Can’t get good workmen these days, the renovation on the new house is slow, so damn slow…and the deer are running wild about the land eating the flowers, taking over, it’s chaos, totally out of control.” My brother lamented after his summer place in Bedford Hills moved to Pound Ridge with 27 acres of prime out-of-the-city property - highest property value in the land along with Malibu - and two new country houses – his and hers - with a clear rock water running stream. My X man and I bemoaned, “Yes, they’re having deer problems! O animal shit! t’ boot. Not to mention the ever-present menacing threat of the wild giant overfed Westchester Beluga County TICS!”
We were wishing we might have deer problems some day too. (Maybe even fight about bananas? or the stalwart ever popular and fresh Swedish New potatos.)

I just happened to be feeding the baby when the banana fight broke loose! I know exactly how long it takes my green bananas to get perfectly ripe with delicious yummy dark spots that let me know its sweet yellow meat is ripe for melting in my mouth so satisfyingly. After finishing feeding the unaware-of-the-banana-problem three-month baby Bee, I burped her, changed her, put her to revel with her classical-music playing Fantasy Island Mobile and her paci(fier); I stole into the kitchen filled with clear glass bottles sterilizing in a nursery assembly line, nipples pinkly fresh for use, rows and rows of Similac in the fridge, herbal teas lining a well-ordered closet shelf, hand-painted sun and moon clocks for baby Bee with very different times? a pretty newly-painted semi-gloss white linen window looking out upon a frozen Central Park and I quietly clipped one of them too ripe bananas and secretly scarffed it down . In truth, I was, by this late afternoon, very hungry, only having had some peanut butter toast hours ago but that’s not why that starling-yellow ‘nana tasted so good that particular February Sunday, close to Valentine’s, after the Jets’d really let us down ):

Canary banana cream. So filling and so sweet. The handsome father did soon return, a new brown bag of (I imagine) bananas of perfection in hand, a little miffed but banana-mission-wise. Lovely lifelike very sleepy robotized mom and dad (She a little worried she’d gone too far when he walked out…He, glad the banana job was done)…lightly crossed parent-paths in the newly-painted kitchen’s yellow archway while the baby played cooingly with her mat toys - where the new mom and dad snuggled and held each other lovingly, knowingly, for a we’re in it for the long haul precious moment in the twilight of a near-end winter’s day, pausing to embrace, exchange deep river blue eye contact that is theirs alone….recharge their long-time loving ways before the dinner crash came too fast upon them with the nightly baby-sink-bath and the washing of Bee’s hair (stimulating her still forming head and scalp in preparation for a full head of golden? locks someday to appear), and yet another 8–ounce bottle soon to suck.

Banana fights are the worst! All yellow and hard to suppress the build up of damage from the past, the banana traumas! I don’t know this first hand. It’s more by hearsay and witnessing the irreparable damage “bad” bananas can incite. And really, dear friends, isn’t this a matter of taste?

But I always say, cornily I admit, “all’s well that ends well.” So let us let this bad banana day which rectified itself in familial joy, fade into the history of our history and pave the way for royal purple-red cherries, pinkly organic raspberries, duckbill orange tangerines, fat casaba melons, tart green local Granny Smiths and all the fruit that truly heals.

Can it be Bee fell asleep in the languor of her loving near-park hive. I’m only a cherry berry grandma. Feelin’ the love that resolve of fruit can bring….

                                                   cherry grandma 3/2010

 

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